


The Devil that You Know

by Langlocke



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asian MGiT, Autism, Blood and Gore, Dwarf Family, Explicit Language, Gen, LGBTQ Themes, Language Barrier, Modern Character in Thedas, No Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protagonist is Agender, Realistic, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langlocke/pseuds/Langlocke
Summary: I can only watch, mouth agape, as the sky is ripped open with a transcendent green light, cracked and distorted and spilling out in the way the eyes can barely comprehend. There’s a delay that’s almost an afterthought before this shockwave of torrential energy reverberates across the land; a crashing, immense sound that shakes the very earth.No one could deny this, not even me.The Breach crackles, ineffable, above.---------Getting dropped into Thedas with all the knowledge of the games isn't going to help if you couldn't speak the language.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	1. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in a place you don't really recognise, but being lucky enough to be found.

I mean, I _do_ consider myself a pretty big Dragon Age fan. 

Bioware’s created this _incredible_ fantasy world -- hands down one of my favourites, and that’s saying something considering the variety I’ve consumed. It’s simply so _rich_ , dense with fantasy culture and magical mechanics. A history and religion that spans across ages and ages, lively and thick with personality. The codex entries are overflowing with tonnes of little details, all of which I’ve hung onto with a fanaticism that other people would probably call crazy. 

In one of my nerdier moments, I bought this Thedas map online and hung it up on the wall I face when I use my computer. Looking at it every day and eventually memorising all the cities along the Imperial Highway (Tevinter, to Nevarra, to Orlais and then Fereldan…)

And yes, well, my insatiable need to be part of the fanfiction community probably fueled this terrible habit of mine to extreme levels. I’m always intrigued by minor details others manage to pick up, and so I delve deeper into the wiki pages myself so as to not be one-upped. Each character in each game I play, I write these notes to myself, about their life and story, their personality; headcanons which I hoard to myself to sink lower into this Dragon Age haze. 

I’ve read all the books. I’ve played all the games, even Last Court. There’s a dedicated savings account in my bank where I’m stockpiling cash to splurge on the World of Thedas art books, though will unfortunately stay unspent, considering my circumstances. 

Something to be proud of? I really don’t know. 

But being a big Dragon Age fan, it’s pretty hard to deny what happens next. 

There’s this.. Really, no word can really encompass the _enormity_ of this feeling; this pressure that seems to come from the very heavens above, pushing and shoving onto you, around you, down your throat and into your being. It wraps itself around my heart, squeezing cold tendrils tighter and tighter until I swear it stops beating. 

I can only watch, mouth agape, as the sky is ripped open with a transcendent green light, cracked and distorted and spilling out in the way the eyes can barely comprehend. There’s a delay that’s almost an afterthought before this _shockwave_ of torrential energy reverberates across the land; a crashing, immense sound that shakes the very earth. 

_No one_ could deny this, not even me. 

The Breach crackles, ineffable, above. 

* * *

I’ve been here for four months, before the Breach opens up. Four months to settle into this world. 

It’s a small, freckled, green-eyed humanoid who finds me, and I say humanoid with the most respect I can because she certainly wasn’t human. A bit too short for that -- proportions all wrong in a way that certainly, with surety, showed that something was up. Shoulders too stocky, and arms too long, that even at a glance I wouldn't mistake this for a short human. 

“Hi,” I breathed, not being able to do much, being flat on my back with her gazing inquisitively down at me. The tip of her braid tickles my nose, her face close enough that I’m hesitant to move lest I knock my head straight into hers. The wind is cool and gentle, causing fronds of tall grass and unfamiliar plants to brush into my exposed arms. I’m suddenly very aware of the small rocks that jut into my back, and the fact that I’m apparently lying down on a forest floor. 

A jumble of words which I can’t possibly comprehend start to fall from her mouth. 

(And apparently, I’m with a fantasy dwarf.)

I suppose she takes my ever-growing wide-eyes as further incomprehension as she backs off with a tilt of her head. As I push myself up to my elbows, she circles around and plops herself cross-legged in front of me, unlimbering her bow and holding it up with one end in the ground. The weapon had to be as tall as herself. 

  
Haah. Her weapon. Dude I swear to God, if I was just dropped into some medieval fantasy world…

I catch the slight furrow in her brow, the purse of her lips. _"Kallas va?"_ She says, the end of the sentence tilting upwards into a question. 

I stare at her in blank incomprehension. "Um." I bring myself properly upright, sitting across from her. She's been patient so far, watching me with admittedly kind eyes, if still a bit suspicious. "I think we have a bit of a language barrier here…" 

She rolls her eyes at my words -- hey, excuse me, I didn't ask for this -- then continued in her language, faster than I can comprehend. It's punctuated by the twirling of her hands, which I realise are hardened and rough, skin cracked in some places from labour. 

She's not that roughed up, over all -- hair tied up neatly in a ponytail, brown locks that were long enough to reach her shoulders. Clothes were simple, but were well kept and patched. Fantasy world that this is, she would be a peasant if I had to assume. Used to hard work, but making the best of it. A leather belt crossed her tunic, where a sharp hooked blade hung from twine. 

(Should I. Should I be more afraid for my life? 

Perhaps in a bit.)

She mimics being knocked in the head. Then points at me. 

I bring up a hand to my head, instinctively checking the area she'd indicated. I hadn't been in any pain since awakening, but my hand finds a section of my hair that feels dirty and matted. When I pull it away, dried blood flakes off my fingers. 

With a shock I look down at myself, heart already rising into my throat. Was I injured?? I'm not in any pain. My clothes were dirty from the ground, my shoes and the bottom of my pants lined with mud. I pat myself down, and find a hard, dried patch at the back of my jacket. Underneath the spot of matted hair at the back of my head. 

A little dazed, look back at my dwarven companion, and nod… slowly. 

She gives me a small smile as she stands up, offering her hand to help me up. I take it and I can only assume her next words are _'Follow me.'_

* * *

She has to raise her arm up for us to walk hand-in-hand, but she doesn't seem to mind that I grip it with extreme force whenever we have to climb the littlest slope or step over the occasional shaky rock. 

(I don't trust my ankles with the great outdoors. Now really wasn't the greatest time to get injured…)

She's vigilant in spite of me, ears perked and head swiveling at the slightest sound, that I soon start to feel myself grow wary. Her steps are so much more practiced than mine, sure-footed and nimble. I grip my jacket tighter around myself. 

We arrive at a small cottage at the base of a mountain just as the sky starts to take on an orange hue. She sits me down on a log outside the house, holding a hand up for the universal sign of 'wait'. Then, approaching the door, she enters and closes it with a click. 

I immediately start pinching my cheeks trying to wake myself up. 

Ow, ow ow ow. Oh God why did I put so much into it from the get go!! Okay, so, that _hurt_ and I've probably left red marks on my face. My eyes start tearing up a little from the pain, and I furiously scrub them away. 

… I doubted this was a dream anyways, but it didn't hurt (metaphorically) to try. 

So far, this seemed too _real._ I was definitely awake, definitely in the middle of the woods. The dirt that crunched under my feet felt solid, apart from the loose sections that threatened to cause someone to slip. The leaves overhead caused shadows to bounce in time with the rustling sounds that followed the breeze. It filled the air with a very green scent, of wood and decaying plant matter. 

The cottage in front of me was something I'd never seen before in person, and definitely not something my memory would've been able to recreate in such detail. The door was wood planks nailed together lengthwise, and while made with good craftsmanship, seems to have been knocked down and put back up in a hurry, as it didn’t close all the way. Creeping vines climbed up the side of the building, into the lines of brick that marked the chimney side of the house. Pressed up against the side of the mountain, bushes seemed to have grown over some parts of the roof, as if trying to reintegrate into nature. 

The windows were boarded up, with sharpened wooden poles jammed into the ground in front of them so people couldn’t approach. The entrance of this place, a dirt path where walking had worn down the grass, had some deep ruts in the ground that seemed rushed and sharp and panicked.   
  


Unfortunately, I don’t think this world was very idyllic.

  
  
Now _how_ I got here was the question, and I’m concerned the bleeding spot at the back of my head is the answer. 

I felt completely _fine._ I glance down at my hands and they’re not even shaking that bad, which happens when I don’t get a good night's sleep. I notice blood under my fingernails, from where I was investigating my scalp, and try to pick it out with my other hand. 

The door to the cottage opens, and my friend (?) steps out, still speaking to whoever was inside. Her tone was a little breathless, speaking quickly with an edge of exasperation.

  
  
(It had to be scandinavian, or something, but god I’d never heard enough of those languages to even make any point of comparison.)

  
  
(Then again, what are the odds that.. they were speaking a language from Earth.)

  
  
(Was I just accepting that I woke up in a fantasy land? I guess I was just accepting that I woke up in a fantasy land.)

  
  
A dwarf that was clearly her father -- bearded, with more age lines and graying streaks of hair, but with the same coloured eyes -- gruffly stomps outside, saying something in response. They argue, back and forth a little, but god I can barely pick up the words they use. It definitely wasn’t English, or any others I spoke. 

“ _Haj wessen…. Kal et_ (something something) _kolat lessig_ ,” he says, sighing. He looks at me, finally, and I’m a bit stricken as he eyes me up and down. 

What a sight I would’ve made. I’m still dressed in clothes I remember, a familiar jumper and denim jacket, if a little roughed up and dirtied. Modern clothes, essentially, and I can still feel my keys and wallet in my pant pockets. I feel severely out of place, especially when I see this dwarven man with braids in his beard and a strangely cut shirt, the glint of a small dagger that also hangs at his hip…

The girl that found me, she speaks again. “(something something) _pa wes!”_ She points at me, and I realise she might be. Defending me.

  
  
I give a little wave. 

(I realise now, I might be in shock.) 

Her father sighs, then throws his hands in the air. He turns and addresses me. “ _Valum chot_ (a really long word I couldn’t figure out how to anglicize) _pa wes. Kallas haj_ (something) _?”_ It ended with an upward tilt, another question, but I really couldn’t do anything but bite my lip and shake my head, not understanding. I turn to look at my friend, who seems to be giving her father a look like _‘See?’_

He rolls his eyes (a family trait!) and turns around to head back inside. Stops at the door, and waits, almost inviting. I share a look with my friend, and she grins cheekily before beckoning. 

I hurry up towards her, still a little shaken (we never really resolved that, did we.) I lean down towards her, speaking quietly, though it comes out a little harsh. 

“Uhm, ah -- _Wes?_ ” I ask, pointing to myself. I heard that word multiple times, said in reference to myself, and I need _any_ handhold on this language that I could get right now.

  
  
She startles a little, then pauses to look at me. “I’m -- I’m a… _Wes?”_ I ask, to get some kind of meaning. 

She starts to make a face -- almost laughing -- but catches herself as she sees how serious I’m being. A kinder expression starts to form, and she kind of shrugs, a lackadaisical kind of ‘sure’. She pats my shoulder, and nods. “Wes,” she confirms. 

Then, as she leads me into her home, she introduces herself, gesturing to herself and saying with a grin, _“Laika.”_


	2. It gets harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling, in unexpected ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta or anything, so please let me know if there are any mistakes! I mostly write for fun, though, so I don't really want any harsh criticism

Her father's name was Gilse (sp?), her mother's name was Maz. Slotting into this family should've been more difficult, but they were welcoming. Warm hearted, even if their eyes suddenly went sharp whenever an unexpected noise would float in from outside of their spacious home. I'm lucky it was built tall enough that I didn't have to duck under the rafters, like some hobbit house. Despite the distinct height difference between us, the house seemed to have been made with someone my height in mind. Again reinforcing this fantasy stereotype world, with its varied but not _that_ different species. I vowed to myself not to be surprised when I inevitably came across an elf. 

(I’m still bothered by the spelling of ‘Gilse’. Okay, you know what, maybe ‘Guils’. It’s not ‘gills’ -- there’s another sound in there, but fine okay okay we’re sticking with Guils.) 

'Wes' seems to have become the word used to refer to me. Ergo, my name. I'm not too sure how to feel about this, but I think it a little too late to correct them now. Additionally, perhaps it was the smart move not to offer up my real name, not yet… Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but there was a kind of comfort to being able to keep that secret. One of the only things that I could call ‘mine’ after being displaced so suddenly. 

Other objects of ‘mine’... I did a stock take of what I had the next day, having been mostly left alone as the other residents of their house had better things to do. Laika would check in on me, but she had to leave soon after I awoke, just after sunrise. I wasn’t too rested, the lumpy bedroll being so different from the beds I was used to in modern day, but it was time to get up, so get up I did.

  
My clothes were the main things. Maz showed me how to get water from the well a couple hundred metres from the cottage, which allowed me to wash my hair out as well as the blood in my clothes. I inspected both -- and while not surprised, it was kind of intriguing to find no trace of injury on my head. Unfortunately, and more upsetting, my clothes were not as faultless, and I found several small rips in my pants and a large one in the back of my jacket. 

It was a goal, for now. 

I wasn’t too unused to this, at least. The country I grew up in (before migrating to a more westernized one) was still lower tech, especially in the outskirts where my grandmother would live. Taught me lots of practical skills, though I’m still not too confident how many of those skills would translate to a medieval world. 

I found a bucket to soak my bloodstained clothes in, the pieces where the blood had already dried and hardened and would be undeniably hard to get out. Maz chattered a bit as she saw me work, which after a bit of miming, I took to understand that I should dump waste-water in another area (which I assume, was to not let it leak back into the groundwater?). I hadn’t thought of that, and ducking my head in acknowledgement even as most of her words flew over my understanding.  
  
Laika and Guils were nowhere to be found for the rest of the day, so I mostly spent it around Maz. She was also a dwarf, built in the same proportions of her husband and daughter, though her hair was redder than the rest of her family’s. Her voice was high and clear, turning over these unfamiliar words in a very frilly way. Even her appearance -- a nice, if simple dress -- described her as a very gentle matron. 

At one point, I bothered her to see if she had any sewing equipment, and her eyes lit up as I mimicked the motions of sewing with a needle. I followed her to a room to the side of the house, and my mouth kind of fell open at _how_ much equipment she had. I kind of paused for a moment, concerned that I was stepping into something forbidden. But she gestured for me to come deeper into the room. 

There was a table on the far side, towards the window that was open slightly, allowing a ray of light to filter in. It was covered in little boxes that unfolded outwards, filled with sewing equipment and different types of thread. A large flat table was an island in the centre, with a bolt of cloth half unrolled and half cut, a pattern of what I recognised to be a dress in the midst of being transferred to the cloth. More bolts stood upright in the back corner, behind the door. 

After rooting around in a little toolbox, Maz holds up a regular needle and a spool of thread. 

_“Diol pasdich!” Thank you!_ I bring my hands together, shaking them -- but I then realise that she might not recognise my culture’s expression of thanks, from the way she smiles in response. _“Diol pasdich!”_ I repeat again, instead. 

She turns to carry out the rest of her work, and I have a growing recognition that she might, perhaps, be a seamstress by profession. It certainly explained the room. There was a stool by the other end of the table that she was currently occupying, and I quietly retreat to that corner to fix up the rips in my pants. I could fix my jacket later, once it was done drying on the clothesline. The bloodstain didn’t come out entirely, but the colour of the fabric was dark enough that you couldn’t tell the ring left behind was blood. My hands were raw enough trying to scrub it out. 

We work in silence for a bit, though I end up bothering her again to ask if I could use the scrap pieces of cloth that fell off her workbench to patch my clothes. She waves me away, so I assume it’s fine. 

A couple times, I just stop and watch her. I’m at most a hobbyist -- I could sew, embroider, cross-stitch and crochet, but those disciplines overlapped and I couldn’t do anything fancy. Maz was definitely a professional, drafting patterns and cutting them with a confidence that came from years of experience. 

She, in turn, stopped by to watch me. As I was finishing up patching the last hole -- so my pants were at least, sturdy and in one piece again -- she comes up and inspects my stitches. 

_“Huh, labi das_ ,” she says, and I recognise the word for ‘Good’. She reaches over and grabs two pieces of cloth that were freshly cut, then indicates which edges went together. I accept it, graciously, and start working. 

* * *

  
  


Guils gives me a blank book, a simple thin journal that didn't seem all too valuable, but I thanked him profusely. As best as I could in their language, over and over again. I don’t think I could convey just how much of a relief it was to own. A place I could store things that belonged to me, like my own words and language. 

It was probably intended for me to practice my script -- which I would, definitely do -- but what I also included was the corresponding phonetics in English. I was a very visual learner and have been all my life. I'd been struggling to remember the influx of information that was being tossed around, and this was going to make it infinitely easier. 

I could use it to sketch, and draw again too. God, I could cry. 

(And draw I did: here, I included a sketch of the layout of the house: 

Laika enjoyed the little doodles, and insisted I make one of her on a scrap piece of paper for her to hang in her room.) 

Laika, ever observant, was the first one to see me write in English. She hovers behind me trying to peer at my notebook, and I lean back slightly as an invitation. Satisfied that she wasn't intruding, she plops her chin on my shoulder to continue watching. (It's really refreshing, having her be so open with physical touch. Somehow, makes this a little easier) 

This language, at least, was phonetic as well. The script used represented the sounds made, and a collection of sounds represented the word. It looked a lot of norse runes at first glance, full of strange little lines and circles. But English probably looked like that to any non-speaker. In the first few pages of the book, I wrote out a conversion chart -- each English alphabet paired up with their fantasy rune. It wasn’t a one-to-one correspondence, since this alphabet had different characters for _‘yu’_ and _‘ch’_ and _‘ils’_ , but it was as close as I could make it for my own reference. In further pages, I wrote my own notes for further vocabulary. 

Laika sees me flip back and forth, checking against this chart consistently. She stops me at one point, and points her finger at the English letter ‘A’. 

“Ah?” she questions, and I blink, surprised that she was sparing this much attention. 

I nod, gesturing to its corresponding rune, also pronounced ‘ah’. 

She nods contentedly, a little gesture of understanding, but it provided a surprising amount of connection. To be honest, I don’t really know why she’s being so nice, and how she convinced her family to accept me too. It wasn’t like they were in a lot of hardship (which relieved me, I don’t think I would’ve been able to be this grateful if they were), and I wasn’t going to bite the hand that was keeping me fed.

  
I wasn’t going to be entitled about this too -- and pitched in wherever I can. Cooking was a place that I could definitely help, having done that professionally in my previous life -- though I needed to learn how to use this woodfire stove. Maz was also growing more and more satisfied that I was, in fact, capable of assisting her in her studio, and I was eager to do whatever work she allowed me. I think she was quickly growing fond of me as well, as she was the primary person who performed both of the previous tasks, so I ended up hanging around her _a lot_. 

Laika came and went, but whenever she was around the house, she made a beeline to me. She definitely felt responsible _for_ me, for whatever reason. 

(A small part of me entertained the thought that I’d found myself in the situation I woke up in, head bloodied in the middle of the woods, _because_ of her -- but it was immediately dismissed. It was only a suspicion that could only fade as I spent more time with her, and the compassion she showed me.) 

(It did, however, still beg the question of how the original deed happened.) 

Laika chatted with me, sometimes speaking too fast for me to even begin to comprehend, but I’d picked up the habit of asking the meaning of words I caught, and she answered like a teacher. When I attempted to speak with my limited vocabulary, she would correct my grammar with the correct word forms, and gave me enough time to write all this information down. 

I got the feeling that there was something she wanted to ask me, but we just couldn’t have that conversation yet because of the language barrier. Just a spark in her eye, whenever she waited for me to slowly pick up the pieces of this language. 

She was sharing with me -- her time, her effort, her family. And if I could share something with her too, so be it. 

I hold up the conversion chart so she could more easily see it. And this time, roles reversed, I give her a quick lesson on English pronunciation. 

* * *

  
  


There was something I've been curious about, and while I dont think I have the full vocabulary to ask yet, it didn't hurt to take initiative. 

Laika's age. She appeared young adult, but I really couldn't tell if maybe people here lived to their hundreds, or perhaps much less. Races in Dungeons and Dragons had wildly variable lifespans (which in my opinion is bullshit), and well, it would be a marker to keep in mind. 

I manage to grab Laika after dinner a couple days after all this started, and we sit in front of the hearth in the centre of the sitting / dining room, a rounded metal container on legs where fire burns inside to keep the rest of the house warm throughout the night. 

I take charge of this conversation, with stilted words that make myself cringe, but I'm determined. 

She blinks at my blankly as I flail around a little, but she has the patience of a saint. It's difficult enough, learning the names of abstract concepts. Nouns of physical objects were easy, just pointing at a thing and asking _"kas?",_ and it was easy to assign. 

Things like _age_ , or even _years_ \-- I had to figure out how to… Express, with the words I knew. 

"Okay, okay… say _haffau tei_ ." _Summer over_ . I'm still just guessing that _haffau_ means summer, because it's not like I can just confirm it with anyone, but I think I got it right, in context.

I caught Guils using the term, I think about transporting goods at the end of the seasons. When I asked, he thought about how to explain it a little, fingers stroking his beard. Then he launched into this rather evocative dance, twirling his fingers to explain hot summer changing into leaves falling down in autumn. He looked quite proud when I nodded that I understood, yes, thank you.) 

I hold up one finger. "Then… _mo haffau tei." Summer over more_. I hold up another finger. 

I point at Laika. " _Jus… iltak?" Iltak_ , I couldn't place 100%. It could mean grow, or old, or maybe I was misunderstanding and it could just be the name of a kind of tree that grew really big. 

God, this was so difficult. I repeat the explanation again, because Laika has the look in her eyes where she's trying really hard, but still hasn't fully grasped it. I try flipping the words around or continuing to show the growing number each time _summer over_. 

I'm growing frustrated, but it just comes out kind of flustered. _"Iltak… kas? Jus." What old you._ Jesus Christ that was fluent. 

I could hear it click, as green eyes look up from my fingers to meet my own. “Oh!” she exclaims. “ _Edvu -- ti raun ach pavanan,”_ she explains. 

_“Pavanan.”_ She holds up two fingers in her right hand, and clenches her left hand closed.

_“Raun.”_ Holds up one finger in her left hand, and puts her right hand down. 

_Raun ach pavanan._ One and Twenty. 

And I don't know, something about the fact that I just couldn't understand _numbers_ set me off. Out of nowhere, I feel tears well up in my eyes with startling speed, spilling over so quickly, that I bring up my sleeve to scrub them away. But suppressing the feeling just causes it to build, a pressure growing in my chest, and against my will a sob escapes my throat. 

I feel arms wrap around my head, my eyes squeezed shut as they are with my palms pressed into the sockets. A rumble in Laika’s chest as she murmurs words I still can’t understand, but the thought makes it through. 

_“Vaidenifar.” Sorry, sorry,_ I apologise. Niceties were one of the first things I’d asked to learn; how to be polite was important to me. 

She maintains her hold, as the hiccups die down, and I’m able to look at her without the blur of tears. 

_“Ti… mo iltak.” I more old,_ I explain, holding up two fingers and emphasizing it twice. I was twenty-two. 

_“Jus mes iltakan,”_ she corrects my grammar, but it's said softly. 

I laugh a little, half startled and taken aback, half absolutely joyous by the sudden comment. She maintains her expression at first, but then she starts giggling, and it grows until we’re both a mess of chuckles, tears forgotten. 

Things were okay, for now. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Climbing mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gets a little more difficult before it gets easier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter to include more bullshit conlang, because I realise it was confusing to only write in English when the protagonist was still thinking in two languages. I'll move to solely writing in English further on, after the protagonist starts thinking only in one language
> 
> (24/9/2020) Making more edits, this time to correct terms said in Common to be fully gender neutral. I forgot I was still accidentally using mom/dad with spoken stuff.

Two weeks isn’t a whole lot of time to learn a language, but it’s actually surprising how much you pick up when you’re completely immersed in a new culture. I’ve heard of it back home -- think it’s called total immersion? When you’re surrounded by people that don’t speak your language, and you simply have to pick it up to survive. 

There’s differences of course, compared to my situation right now. Learning a language, you really hope that you’d at least have the building blocks available to you, a rosetta stone that you can base your understanding around. Back home, you’d have the internet, or you might know someone who already knows both languages, and could give you tips. Here, I’m scrambling, words falling through my fingers as I desperately try to put together sounds and meaning. 

I think I’m managing. 

“Your shoes,” Laika taps her shepherd's staff at my feet, chattering on a little. I’m not at the stage where I can understand full sentences, but I’m familiar enough with the words that I can kind of fill in the gaps.

(I was like that with Hokkien before -- never formally learned the language, and certainly couldn’t speak it -- but I’d picked up enough through family members nattering in my ear that I could guess what they were saying, so long as I already had the context.)

(It certainly was easier the better I knew the person -- and well, Laika’s really my closest friend at this point. Love her. Appreciate her.) 

“Your shoes -- weird! Not good for _tolstat_ (? maybe terrain, or slippery).” She’s so much more fluent than what my understanding could pick up, her voice wrapping around the syllables of her language and flowing like a stream. She had this kind of confidence too, which reminded me of an older brother. Since she was an only child, it kind of made sense. 

It was especially apparent now, halfway up a mountain. 

Laika insisted I accompany her today, and we set out at dawn. She explained she could show me what she did for work, and curious as I was, I agreed with too much enthusiasm. We hiked a little, following the trail off to the west of the cottage, and arrived at another homestead -- this one with a little garden, and animal pens. The chicken coop clucked loudly, a couple hens hopping out through its small door as Laika started opening a bag of feed and distributing it by the handful. She doesn’t really seem to require me, moving with practiced motions, so I lean up against a fence post to try and catch my breath. 

I admit, I’m not the fittest person. I’m much better than what I used to be -- I was skinny as a stick in high school, completely underweight and nutrient deficient. When I started working, I could afford supplements, that helped me get healthier, that allowed me to do more work… and I never really had the time or energy to work out and get those gains. That’s why games were such as escape for me… you really didn’t have to do much to get enjoyment out of them. 

Where I am now, I’m not _unhealthy_ , but this thirty minute non-stop hike that Laika took every morning was _insane_. The path we travelled was somewhat uphill, up the mountain that the family cottage was pressed up against. It was dirt roads, packed together from the thousands of feet stamping on it, but it was still loose enough at the edges where you had to watch your step, or you’d trip over a rock. This homestead was on a spot on the mountain where it plateaued a little, and in the morning light, the shadow of the mountain above provided quiet relief that we didn’t have to climb all the way up there. 

(Behold, I doodled it while waiting. 

I’ve started bringing the notebook everywhere with me, since it helped me to remember new words by writing it down immediately.) 

Laika finishes with the chickens, and calls for me to follow. She starts moving towards the sheep pens, where the creatures look up lazily when they see her approaching. 

I pause, catching something in the corner of my eye. 

“ _Laika,”_ I breathe, suddenly very afraid. The sound comes out strained, and she doesn’t hear. “Laika!” I call again, but then the large shape starts bounding towards us. 

My dwarven friend whistles, sharp and cutting through the air. “Koth! Down!” she says clearly, holding her hand out and pointing at the ground as a _massive_ hound bursts from around the corner and nearly barrels her over. Actually, genuinely _MASSIVE_ in all caps -- Laika could easily mount this dog like a horse, it could trample her over with no effort, it reached my chest at the shoulders -- and it.. sits obediently in front of her, giving a deep, bassy _Woof_ in greeting. 

...Dogs did not.. grow this big. My heart’s still a little jumpy, and I put a hand on my chest to settle it. I don’t know much about dog breeds, but it looked like a pit bull, just three times bigger and meatier. In fact, it kind of looked like a mabari from Dragon Age. 

(I’d considered… what worlds I could’ve fallen into. All the different fantasy media I’d read or played or watched. But at this point, I didn’t have enough information to make a concrete conclusion. Dwarves and big dogs weren’t exclusive to this franchise.) 

“Koth is good,” Laika explains. “Good, good boy, right?” 

He responds in that incredibly baritone _Woof_ again, tail wagging with enough force that the nearby weeds bend over at the generated wind. 

“Koth will help with work. You also Wes, let’s go.” 

She releases the sheep from the pen, and they start baa-ing as the huge dog starts herding them out. Laika, with help from the sheepdog, starts guiding the sheep further up the mountain pasture. 

(Oh… no… we’re climbing it after all…) 

* * *

I fall on my but on the sloped ground, feet finding purchase on a large rock that juts out of the grass at an angle. I gulp, big breathes, sweat already dripping down my chin. 

Laika’s completely _fine,_ stabbing her staff into the ground for balance. She’s sharp eyed, gazing around the entire area, keeping in mind the pasture, the sheep, Koth, and myself. I’ve always pinned her as the responsible type, and that was super obvious when she worked, as she took this job really seriously. 

(To be honest, I don’t think.. this mountain is really… that big? I grew up in a smog-filled city, but when my family immigrated in my late teens, we could go out and drive to the little hills and mountains that suburbs were named after. This was probably.. a small mountain. Steep enough for it. I just don’t like climbing mountains, okay -- walks are fine! But upwards slopes are just… unreasonable…)

She’s glancing out to the distance. The area was full of hills and glens, but this high up we could actually see pretty far out. My vision’s never been the best though I’ve never really needed glasses, so I’m honestly watching Laika’s face more. A small furrow grows between her brows, as a breeze blows past and sends her braid and scarf flying behind her. 

“Is danger?” I ask. I don’t know if we’ve just been lucky, because in my stay so far there hasn’t been anything more than false alarms where Guils bursts out the front door, axe already swinging (he was very apologetic after finding out that it was a ram that had knocked over the firewood.)

She hesitates, making a little face. “...No. Not now.” 

I see a very faint line that creeps upwards in the distance. A smoke trail, remnants of a campfire on the other side of another mountain. It might not even be that far away -- I would guess that you might be able to reach there within a day, walking. 

Other people then, in these woods. 

I wrap my arms around my knees. It’s getting a little chilly. 

“Is danger, I and Maz at home?” Laika spares me a glance then, trying to reassure me with her expression. 

“No, I can see you. I watch when I’m here.” She points out the edge of the house, barely visible due to an overhand of land, and so very far down. “When I’m here, I _merastagh_ (check?) for danger. So don’t worry.” 

The sheep are grazing peacefully, and Koth approaches Laika, panting as he sits down next to her. Gosh, he’s huge. He yawns widely, and I cringe a little at the size of his fangs. A smaller sheep, somehow unafraid, follows up behind the hound playfully, and starts grazing directly in front of me. 

(Is this a metaphor…?) 

I sigh. Laika looks over and makes a questioning sound, and I stammer a little, caught out. 

“I… have concern, because you and Guils have... “ (ugh what was knife again? blade? weapon?) I give up and gesture to the hooked dagger hanging on her hip. “I never see before. Never use before. Is very scary.” 

“ _Sharvajj_ ,” she gives me the word. And gives me a look of surprise. “Really?” 

I shrug, what could I say? When I was little, I did take self-defense courses.. my country wasn’t the safest for children, but I’d always been a wuss as a kid, and even the thought of sharp objects sent me into high alert. I got used to them in culinary school, but that’s only due to the reassurance that everyone got the same safety course that I took, thus, everyone would be able to use and store and wash and maneuver around sharp objects safely… 

Sometimes, whenever I stand around Laika or Guils and the glint of their weapon caught my eye, I’d just make sure to stand on their other side, because of my wariness. Super irrational, I know, but it’s just something that my brain insisted on doing. 

“Hm… maybe we’ll need to show you then. How to use a dagger.” 

I give a little pained smile, and Laika pats my shoulder. This was the only situation where she could do it without straining herself -- me seated on the ground, her standing up. I’d really rather continue to help Maz with her discipline, but I understood the need for self-protection. The surprise she showed at my lack of knowledge of it probably was telling at how much I’d need it in this world. 

“I know you like helping with house more,” Laika says, reading my mind. I nod absently. “But you must be safe, as well as happy.” And that seemed to be that. 

The sheep in front of me chews loudly, and I’m tempted enough. I scoot a little closer, so it’s within arms reach. An idea occurs to me. 

“I can make…” (crap I didn’t know the word for hat) “for head? Make warm,” I explain, running my hand through the sheep’s wool coat. It allows itself to be bothered by me, very preoccupied with the grass it was eating. 

“The word is _itan_ ,” Laika responds automatically, educating me like she has been all this while. 

“Right, hat. But this needs to be long, like string.” A bit of wool actually fell off in my hands, and I twirl it together, so it’s a very shoddy version of yarn. 

“Oh okay, you need _luktan_. Willa -- farm owner -- maybe has some. If you make hats, we can _gravtorkallen_ (trade?) for new shoes.” 

“ _Gravtorkallen_ like…?” I make criss-cross motions with my fingers. Just double checking. 

“Yeah, _gravtorkallen_ means exchange goods.” 

“Okay. Good.” 

Willa -- Laika’s boss, an elderly human lady who lived back down in the homestead (alone, apparently, so she couldn’t take as good care of the animals anymore) did indeed have a couple spools of yarn, which she let Laika take without much fuss once we’d finished work. We said goodbye to Willa and Koth, and headed back home for the day. 

* * *

  
  


“It is a sheep hat.” I hold up the finished piece proudly. 

Getting a crochet hook was the trickiest bit, since such a thing… might not have existed yet. I managed to whittle down a suitable stick to have a hook on one end, and it worked well enough. The wool sometimes unravelled a little and got caught on the rough ends of the hook -- but that was simply something that happened when things were processed by hand rather than being uniformly processed by machine. Not really any kind of standardized gauge I could follow, either. 

The yarn was undyed, a natural off-white colour that was pretty much the same as a sheep’s coat. I took some black thread, and managed to embroider eyes, noise, and a mouth into the front of the beanie. It was a pattern I knew well, as I made it a couple times already, only needing slight modifications to work in the shape of sheep ears. 

“Cute!” Maz jumps on it, eyes sparkling. “Very very cute!!! Laika, come here.” Her daughter hesitates a little, but her next call is the universal mom voice, that brooked no argument. “ _Laika.”_

I blink, a little worried because -- I don’t want to make my friend uncomfortable? But she acquiesces, and Maz pulls the beanie over her head, and starts fussing with her hair so it falls properly. A quite put upon smile on Laika’s freckled face, but her eyes are fond, if very very embarrassed. 

It’s quite cute. 

I snicker, and Laika’s eyes zero-in on me. “Don’t laugh,” she grumbles, but I can tell it was said with mock sternness, and it was okay if I did. 

“Sorry, sorry..” I try to swallow my chuckles, but my lips keep twitching upwards. 

Laika’s really not one for cute and pretty things. She would run out in the wilderness, train for strength and agility and fighting like a warrior. She preferred wearing clothes that allowed her freedom to use her bow. Which, I could tell, disappoints Maz sometimes, who I’m starting to understand has adopted me as a surrogate daughter for the duration of my stay. 

I didn’t mind, really. Maz was nice, and we seemed to have fallen into a routine with work in her sewing studio and household chores. She said to me once that I made things easier around the house, which was honestly such genuine praise that I was riding that high for the next few days. She compliments me with no hidden backhanded meaning, which was in part because I was still learning the language, but I also feel like she’s just that kind of person. 

“You work with yarn so well!” Maz says to me. Laika’s taken off the beanie, so Maz is able to look at it close to examine the stitches. 

“You are the most master sewer,” I say back to her, but she just rolls her eyes and waves it away. 

Another thing about Maz; she was such a sincere woman, but couldn’t seem to accept other people’s sincerity in kind. 

Laika gives me an approving nod as she slips away, happy to leave me to her mother’s attention. She _really_ didn’t like whenever anything remotely ‘girly’ happened but I suppose I understood. 

A thing about this language that I really, really appreciated however -- was the fact that so far, in all my experience with it, it seemed completely gender neutral. There were words for ‘man’ and ‘woman’, but it didn’t gender those descriptions, nor did it assign gender to inanimate objects like I knew the romantic languages back home did. Here, they didn’t even have ‘he/she’ -- only a word for singular ‘they’, and another word for plural ‘they’. 

When Laika referred to her parents, there wasn't even a 'mom' or 'dad' -- just a shared prefix she'd add in front of their name. Di-Maz, and Di-Guils. It was the short version of the word for 'parent', _didiras_. It reminded me of honorifics that were used in Japan. 

It helped in that.. so far, I hadn’t been put in any tricky situations about my gender. In fact, it hasn’t even come up at all. They could just refer to me as ‘Wes’, or with singular ‘they’ -- which in my opinion was perfect and didn’t ever have to change. 

(I… had a long and tricky journey with my gender identity, but I’ve settled on the fact that I was agender, before all this started. If it came to it, if this world was less understanding and filled with prejudice -- I was willing to go by ‘he/him’, as I originally started with ‘he/they’. But how fortunate I was that it didn’t have to be that way.  
  
I’d spent long enough closeted as it was.) 

I wonder a little if Laika had the same dysphoria as myself -- I’d be interested to have that conversation when I knew enough words to express it. I don’t _think_ it’s the case so far, though; Laika expresses herself as a woman, with long braided hair and clothing that while prioritised comfort, but was still womanly. I don’t think I’ve ever caught her being uncomfortable with that fact, but to be fair, I’ve only known her for less than a month. 

It’s probably a pipe dream to think much about LGBT issues in a fantasy world like this, though. Or I mean, who knows -- a more freeform world like this might be more accepting that whatever I had back home. 

As of now, however -- my experience with this world was isolated and encompassed entirely to this family. Sheltered by whatever they feared in the night by our remote location, and my lack of understanding of it. 

Wonder if that would change soon. 

  
  



	4. Keep trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it gets kind of fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this at 2am, forgive me if theres mistakes I'm on mobile and want to pass out
> 
> (24/9/2020) Making edits for all the mistakes, changing 'uncle' to 'bibi' because I forgot I made this language gender neutral lmao. I'll be catching myself a lot, but hopefully less as things carry on. Please forgive me if I forget NB term! I'm trans myself but will always be constantly learning

I'd been wearing only the clothes I'd owned this whole time. I had enough layers when I originally fell through that I could alternate the shirts I wore while I hand washed and sundried the other. Same with my jacket and jumper. For my pants, I could wash them, then hang them by the hearth and watch them dry with a blanket wrapped around me as I waited. I'd do this quietly, while Laika was at work and Maz was in her studio, because it was… awkward to ask for new clothes, and I was managing. 

If I understood the months correctly, it was currently the beginning of summer and while the mild temperatures didn't really reflect that, it certainly wasn't cold enough for me to freeze to death yet so I will stubbornly hold my silence. 

...Maz still catches on, though. 

The shirts I was wearing when I fell through were honestly already quite thin. I'd worn them for years, and they still fit me, so I wasn't going to throw them out. But this constant wear, and the hand washing just too much for them. Maz catches me attempting to fix a small rip. The problem was that the fabric around the rip was simply too thin for me to stitch a patch to, so I had to scrounge around for more scrap fabric. Maz throws my old one out and insists on just making me a new shirt. 

I’m a little flustered as she brings out the measuring tape and wraps it around my shoulders and my waist, but she admonishes me for moving when I accidentally prick myself with the pins she’s sticking into the tape to keep the measurements. I know cloth isn’t easy to come about these days! Clothing was precious, when handmade and handcrafted -- it’s only when fast fashion and factories became a thing when wardrobe sizes grew. In medieval times like this, it was normal to only own one or two outfits. 

(Fast fashion was also responsible for the quality of fabric going down… such as the poor shirt I just threw out.) 

I’ve recently been getting into the whole thrifting and making-your-own-clothes initiative to reduce fashion waste (now wasn’t that a whole topic) but then I guess this is happening now and I’m going to REALLY get into that initiative. 

“It’s fine!” Maz reassures me, unwinding the measuring tape and laying it out on an unrolled bolt of cloth. At least it was a plain one -- just beige coloured, undyed. She makes incredibly swift marks with a piece of chalk, drawing out an entire pattern of a tunic with three quick strokes. I really was watching a master at work. 

“You’ve worked enough for me to pay it back over. In fact I’m upset you didn’t say anything sooner!” 

I feel myself cringe up a little when I process that she’s said the word ‘upset’, but she’s still moving with purpose, so I don’t think she meant anything serious by it. 

She makes several decisive snips with her large sewing scissors, and a single piece of fabric comes free from the roll. She drapes it over my head, and it falls around me at pretty much the perfect size, the shape of a tunic. The cloth’s rougher than whatever cotton the modern shirt I wore was made of, but it was thick and would fit right when finished. 

“You can sew it up yourself since you’re so concerned.” Maz waves me off, as she turns back to get to her work. There were marks with chalk where the seam lines would go, just as she had done with all the previous work I’d sewed for her. I’d just need to put this tunic together like those little paper doll things, sewing edges together till a garment was formed. 

Something simple like this really was nothing to Maz. It took literally a minute and a metre of cloth. This happens so fast my head’s spinning a little, so I walk out of her studio, clad only in pants and the cut cloth draped over me, needle in one hand and thread in the other. 

This is the first thing our newcomer sees as he bursts through the front door, heavy boots stomping in and dredging soot and dirt on the wood floor. 

“GILLY, GUESS WHO’S BAck -- oh,” he says. A dirty, matted dwarven man stands in the entryway of this home, backlit by the afternoon sunlight. 

The large parcel on his back clatters noisily to the ground. 

This is awkward. 

* * *

  
  


“Go jump in the river.” Maz sniffs derisively. “ _Both_ of you.” 

The dwarven men she was referring to are both too preoccupied to even notice. As soon as Guils lays eyes on the newcomer, he gasps, and the both approach each other eagerly to give the most powerful embrace I’ve ever seen. Genuinely forceful. The air ripples with a resounding _clap_ at the intensity of their hug. 

(Dwarf arms are just so… muscular! I know that if Laika didn’t hold back in the hugs she gave me, she would actually snap my spine in half.) 

They’re still hugging it out, almost wrestling as they throw each other around without letting go. Whatever dirt and grime and practically blackened the other man was rubbing off on Guils. 

“That is _bibi_ ,” Laika explains. I’d retreated to the dining table immediately after that awkward encounter, sitting on the far end of this commotion and was channeling all my energy into finishing up my new tunic so I didn’t have to sit half naked in front of everyone. My jacket was hanging outside in the sun, so attempting to get that to cover up would mean crossing the sheer wall of masculinity that was blocking my path, and this seemed to be the lesser effort. Laika has her knees on the bench and was leaning with her arms braced on the table, watching my frantic work. 

“Bibi Pyeors,” she says. The two men have finally let each other go, and were exchanging greetings much too fast for me to understand more than one or two words. However, it's easy enough to catch that they were brothers -- same facial structure, same height. Looking similar, but not identical. 

“Say again?” I ask, the pronunciation catching me out. 

“Pyeors.” Laika points at my pant pocket, and I pull out the notebook and its accompanying little piece of sharpened graphite. She flips to the latest page and writes the phonetic runes for me to read. Then, next to it -- she writes a single, unfamiliar character. 

“What’s this?” I ask, pointing at the new character. It was much more complicated, written with more strokes than any of the previous alphabet I’d learned and memorised. 

Laika opens her mouth to respond, but we get interrupted. “Hey! That’s my name!” 

A stubby, sooty finger comes down between us and points at the new character. When removed, a full-on fingerprint is left behind. “Pyeonnonlir!” 

I blink, nonplussed by this man suddenly in my face. I kind of respond on autopilot. “What is the meaning?” 

He shrugs as he dances away, apparently having come over just to bother Laika, spotting his name, losing interest, and leaving. Guils and him exchange more words. When I turn back to Laika, she rolls her eyes. 

“It’s like -- mountain, but the top of it.” She draws a triangle on the page, and a squiggle to represent the snowcaps, then points a finger to the very tip. “Except that the language is Dwarvish, not Common.” 

So… summit, or peak? 

My eyes are glued to the new character. Peak. 

“Wes, do you want to try practicing more today?” 

(Peak registers a little easier than Pyeors.) 

Dwarvish? 

“Wes.” Laika taps a finger on the back of my hand. “Come on, I’d like to do this before sundown!” 

“Ah, uhm.” Hmm practicing… 

“Might as well do it when di-Guils is around.” 

I look down, and my tunic lies completed in my hands. I didn’t even realise this was the last seam. I twist the end of the thread around my finger and pull to tear it off, and I still feel the weight of Laika’s expectant gaze on me. Finding no excuses, I pull the tunic over my bare chest and sigh. 

“Alright, let’s do it.” 

* * *

Laika’s made true her promise to teach me how to defend myself. She got Guils into it too, as he was apparently the more knowledgeable warrior. 

In our previous sessions, Guils would let me hold onto his axe, and showed me how to swing it without injuring myself. Then he’d tell me to repeat the motion fifty times and go and sit under a tree with a drink. 

Laika was more involved. Her weapon of choice was a bow, the very one that I saw with her in our first encounter. And she was very, very skilled with it -- she’d go hunting, occasionally, on time lugging an entire boar across her shoulders that she’d killed herself home. When she let me try pulling her bowstring, though, I nearly tore a muscle at how stiff the string was. She mentioned that I’d probably need a beginners one to learn, but I said I might not be suited for this anyway, because my spatial awareness was.. very bad. 

So, she was teaching me the ways of close combat. Much more informative than what Guils would show me, because she’d stop to explain the reasoning behind things, especially when I asked. How to see what direction an enemy would strike. How to step safely out of the way. Why you’d do this instead of that. What to look out for in the ground, so you don’t trip over it. 

Today, she throws me one of her old practice knives. They were simple ones carved out of wood, which were the ones _she’d_ learn to fight with originally. Guils and Peak, her uncle, watch from the sidelines, the latter still covered in dust but ignoring it completely. 

(I wonder if Dwarvish is the same as Chinese -- it was a singular character, rather than a collection that made up the sound!) 

Laika adjusts the grip of her own knife in her hand. “Ready?” she asks, and I nod absently as soon as I hear it. 

(Common must have roots in Dwarvish, though -- the lines are the same, and I saw the phonetic rune of ‘Lir’ within the word, just smaller and surrounded by more characters -- just like Chinese! It must be, what’s it called -- logo, logo-something, Egyptian hieroglyphs were the same -- ) 

She swings her arm around, aiming to stab me in the stomach, and I jump backwards. She spins, so her back is towards me for a moment, then lunges forward with the momentum to slash me again, and I yelp as I dive sideways. 

My arms grind into the dirt, and I scramble onto my butt so I’m still facing her, then back up to my feet. She’s paused in the middle of a stance. 

(In the background, I notice Guils and Peak start walking away, into the woods.) 

“You dropped your knife,” she points out, a little blankly. I think she’s shocked I messed up that badly. 

“Oh,” I respond, equally blankly. I clamber to pick it back up. 

(I wonder if the whole dwarven language is purely character based? There was so much structure to it, I get the feeling it’s kind of ancient.) 

“You okay?” 

“Yes good!” I say immediately. Then my shoulders drop. “...Perhaps, thinking other things.” 

“When you’re fighting, you can’t think of other things,” she teases, slashing the wooden knife playfully in the air next to my arm. 

“Sorry… it’s difficult to change thinking.” 

(I still just want to.. think about dwarvish, rather than have this conversation now, but I can’t really get out of this.) 

(Oh, I’m hyperfixating, aren’t I. Mmm this isn’t the greatest time to hyperfixate --) 

I jolt as Laika’s braid _thwaps_ me in the face. She’s swinging her gaze around the clearing in front of the house. 

“Where did di-Guils and bibi…?” 

“Maybe they go to the river.” I point in the direction I saw them heading off in. 

“Huh. Okay, but you.” She turns her attention back to me. “We can leave sparring for another day.” 

Hnnhh…. “Sorry…”

“No, don’t say sorry. We’re practicing for you, because I worry about you,” she grins, and I feel a flush of embarrassment through my face. Nope! No more hyperfixating on cool new fantasy languages, I’m going to pay attention to this conversation now. Laika deserves it. 

“Sorry feeling remains! My head is…” Gosh, how do I explain autism and ADHD in this language? Was it even possible with the words I had now? Could I even give… an appropriate explanation for this, or would she just think I was making excuses? I hope she doesn’t think I’m ungrateful… 

“There is… explanation. I just don’t know words to explain.” 

She chews on that a little, sitting down cross-legged in the dirt and inviting me to sit in front of her, which I comply. “I noticed you’d just… get really focused on things sometimes. Like sometimes when you’re sewing, and you don’t even come out for dinner!” She shakes her head with mock disappointment and _harrumphs_ . Then she notices me tensing and quickly assures me, “It’s not bad! I’m _kassavan_ (impressed?) that you get so _uggis_ (intense??) sometimes.” 

I’m _hoping_ that I guessed those words right. Damn it, I’ll be too anxious if I don’t confirm. 

“ _Kassavan_ … is… good?” 

“Yes yes, impressed is good,” she responds with a laugh. 

(She’s so cute when she talks like that.)

(I wonder if she can speak Dwarvish, like if she spoke both??) 

(I wonder if there’s any shared words between Common and Dwarvish, though maybe it’s too early for me to assume -- ) I cut off the thought. 

I. hate. hyperfixation sometimes. It’s nice when I have the space and lack of prior responsibility to let my brain loose, but when I don’t it’s such a struggle. I struggled so much through university, because I’d focus on stuff not relevant to my course until the deadline was almost up. I’ve been lucky so far, that somehow, a part of my brain has been rational enough to realise that _maybe_ I should focus on my survival aspects first -- so things honestly, haven’t been as bad these few weeks. When I _had_ to be super autistic, it was with stuff actually relevant to my immediate survival, like learning this unfamiliar language, and suddenly remembering all the primitive survival videos I’d watched on Youtube so I managed to start a fire with minimal help and not weird everyone out. 

“What are you even thinking about?” Laika asks, and I’m put on the spot. 

“...Dwarvish,” I admit, because well, I’m not going to lie to her, even by omission. 

“You should focus on learning Common first!” 

“I know, I know!” 

Then she _hmms_. “The parents are going to the Red(place?) next week. There’s a building with many books there, and they might have some in Dwarvish. I can talk to them, so we can all go together.” 

(In Common, the word in place of the article ‘the’ is unique as it connotes that ‘there is only one of this thing in the world’, so I’ve assumed this Redplace is a location in the area. I should probably. Confirm that sometime.) 

Then what she says processes, and I blink. “Really?” 

Laika nods. “Yeah, we can do some trading too.” 

A pleased, fluffy feeling feels my chest, as I think about my friend and just all the things she's doing for me. I've never been lucky, my whole life could described with all the stories of how I was unlucky; but if all my collective luck had been compiled to be used at the moment I met Laika, then maybe it was okay. 

  
  


I'm float on this feeling as Laika stands and offers a hand to pull me to my feet, and we collect any litter before we head back inside. I'm honestly not even feeling that lost in my head anymore, being grounded back into reality by her kind words. 

It lasts, until Guils and Peak return from wherever they wandered off to. 

In a mimicry of the scene that happened before, the front door slams open just as Laika and I walk away from it. A sopping wet Guils stands downtrodden, a very vexed expression on his face. His wide-brimmed hat drops from the weight of the water. 

Behind him is his brother, also dripping from head-to-toe, but with a more mischievous visage, openly pointing and laughing at Guils. 

Looks like they both made it to the river, I think, but it's immediately overridden by another thought.

My eyes zero in on a mark on Peak's cheek. It looked like a tattoo at first glance, a drawn shape on the skin of his right cheek and the side of his nose. The dark colour made it completely invisible before, when he was so covered in dirt and dust that his skin colour wasn't even visible. 

An flattened S shape, though the font was slightly pixelated, as if made out of little blocks.

… wasn't that the casteless brand? 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Apparently, Peak was a miner, which explained why he was covered in so much grime. 

(It didn't explain why he didn't clean off sooner, but I guess he needed… a little push. Haha.) 

He was Guils' older brother, and their whole family escaped to the surface before Guils was born. Their parents, and Peak, all got the brand but Guils managed to escape it by being born on the surface. Peak still wanted to retain his stone sense, though, so he still spent a majority of his time underground. 

Peak works for a surface mining organization in the east, but in their digging they had unintentionally linked up to the deep roads. His colleagues were all cowards (his words) that wanted to deal to off immediately, but Peak took the opportunity to sneak in before that happened and… steal a bunch of treasure off of corpses. Which he now wanted Guils to sell on his behalf. 

(Huh, it's really easy filling in the blanks of what-word-meant-what when I have context and prior knowledge!!) 

(Also hm, holy shit, dragon age dragon age dragon age. Huh. Dragon age, of all things, dragon age. I suspected for a bit, but still, _HMm..._ ) 

(It's pretty much confirmed at this point, I guess. Huh, Dragon Age.) 

(This is actually pretty cool. And I can only say that because I have the hindsight of being here for almost a month, being in a welcoming and non-hostile environment, before this realization hit. Huh.) 

Anyways, Peak was going to be sharing a room with me. This wasn't the first time he'd crashed in this house, and he would usually claim the storeroom where I slept. The store room was already quite full of furniture and chests in storage, in addition to me, my bedroll, and my own small collection of belongings, so we had to make do. He strung a hammock across two beams, so he could hop up a couple boxes and sleep above all the junk on the ground. 

He has very open tastes for a dwarf. 

(And I can draw that conclusion from prior experience with dwarves in the games!) 

This late in the evening, we only have the light of a candle to see by, but Peak still manages to arrange himself comfortably. I can see his brand where his face peeks over the hammock, and oops I guess I've been staring at it too long -- 

"You wanna know why I got the name, _Pyeonnonlir?_ " He says, directed to no one but I was the only one that could answer. His tone was goading, like he was about to launch into a very spooky story. 

..I'm too polite to not answer. "Why?" 

"They missed," he says, as if it explained it. He leans up a little so I can see his full grin, and points at the brand. "I can see you staring at it, and it's because it's in the wrong place, right?" I shrug, and he keeps going. 

"When you are born casteless in Orzammar, the patrols will seize the baby and mark them with a hot iron brand." He taps his right cheek. "It's supposed to be here, but they missed. Apparently, I screamed loud enough that it could be heard from the tops of surface mountains. They did not try to brand me again in the right place." 

He pauses to check, "Did you understand that? My sibling told me to use simple language with you." 

(That was so… Dragon Age. Gosh this was Dragon Age.)

I missed out on a word here and there, but context filled most of it in, so I nod eagerly in response. 

He chuckles. "Yeah, I knew you weren't stupid!" 

"I am just learning language." 

"Right, right… but the family seems to like having you around. So I guess I'll trust their judgement(? I think) and relax around you too." 

He settles back into his hammock, and pinches the flame on the candle. The room plunges into darkness. 

I whisper to get his attention. "Bibi." He grunts questioningly. 

I think the grin was audible in my next words. "Please teach me the bad words. Laika does not want to." 

He guffaws a little, caught unaware, but he clears his throat quickly so the rest of the house wasn't awoken. The walls weren’t particularly thick. 

"Damn, so you do have some rebel in you," he says, but the words also come out through a smiling mouth. "Well, theres _fuck_." 

" _Fuck."_ I repeat, under my breath.

"Then theres also _fuck."_ A different word this time. 

" _Fuck!"_ I repeat triumphantly. 

"Then also _fuck, fuck, fucking, fucker, fuck,_ and _fucking._ Last three are dwarvish terms used underground." 

"What is the meaning?" 

I hear the shifting of blankets and I picture him shrugging. "Just _fuck!"_

This dude just gave me eight different words for fuck. Laika is going to be so disappointed in me. 

I hear him laugh a little quietly, almost a wheeze. "Yeah, okay, I can kind of see why they like you now." A sigh. "Welcome to the family, I suppose." 

* * *

As we're getting dressed the next day in first light, I bother a drowsy Peak for the spellings of the new vocabulary he's blessed me with, but he swats me away. "What, you think I can write? Bah," he grumbles. 

"I am make mistake??" 

"I only know how to write my name!" 

Pfft, okay, fine. That's alright, I'd committed most of them to memory already. 

I'm thinking about names for the rest of the morning, though, as I go through my routine of freshening up and breakfast. Because most names have meaning, right? And the Common language was a very literal one. 

I ask Maz about it, when we're both in the studio. 

"Guils is short for _Guilesima._ It is also Dwarvish like Peak's, but he chooses to write it in Common. It is… a structure on the surface, a large wheel in the water of a stream. As a baby, he would fall asleep to the sound." 

(Oh, huh, I just realised I've been mentally replacing uncle's name with Peak. There's not really much reason for it, it's just… easier.) 

(It's not like my thoughts are privy to a bunch of ceaseless watchers anyway. If there are, enjoy my anxiety I guess.) 

"I was born on the surface, so my parents named me after a type of flower. _Mazaiika_." 

"And Laika?" 

Maz makes a face here, stabbing her needle in with too much force to be ladylike. "I gave her that name. I hoped she would be more like me! I still love her, of course, but I wished to share more of my skills with her… instead she goes out and runs over the hilltops, shooting with her bow. She is so capable!! But I am just.. sad that she refuses to share that with me…" 

She stops her stitching, growing more despondent. A sigh. I'm a bit thrown for the loop at that sudden vent, but I'm more impressed with myself that I managed to keep up with it. 

"The… the meaning?" 

A more petulant expression on her face, Maz holds up the piece she is working on. Fine white thread criss-crosses to form the most delicate stitches in a fabulous hand-sewn lace. 

" _Lace!"_ She points out, proudly displaying her work and airing her displeasure all at once. "She wouldn't even agree to wear something like this!" 

…. Wait, hang on a moment -- 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ofc based only off of my experience with my ADHD and autism. I cant speak for anyone else's, though I hope I wrote it in a way that represents the condition well

**Author's Note:**

> If you're enjoying this so far, please let me know! I know my tastes are super niche, and it's good motivation to know that someone else apart from me is having fun.


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